


Dead End World

by ballantine



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate History, Alternate Universe - 1990s, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 07:19:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8614771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballantine/pseuds/ballantine
Summary: John Silver makes a choice.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Things being what they are, I though that a post-apocalyptic narrative was only emotionally tenable if it was set in the past. So -- expect gratuitously indulgent references to 1980s/90s technology, music, and culture.

**Forward:**

“Imagine the worst thing that ever happened to you — not that, everyone picks that. Okay, got it? Right.

“You’re working the Caribbean cruise circuit as a line cook. Every night is hours spent plating fucking ceviche until your cuticles sting from the lime and your skin reeks of fish. Ship’s full of fat Yanks who think the height of excitement is drinking a bottle of overpriced red wine and forming a conga line.

“Circuit takes two weeks, hits up all the main islands in the Bahamas before returning to Florida to switch out its passengers. The job is shit, but the pay's decent. You figure you’ll stick with it until you’ve made enough to pay off your debts in Miami.

“But then, what’s this? The world up and ends. And not only are you _not_ getting back to England, you don’t even get to go back to fucking _Florida_. Navigation’s gone, no satellite connection, and the captain shot himself. Only person on board who can make head or tail of the maps is some kid who doesn’t even need to shave yet. You’re stuck slowly starving to death on a floating tub with a bunch of hysterical retirees.

“Eventually you make landfall at Nassau. Thank fuck, right? Except no, because between the entitled rich tourists and the pissy locals, everything goes to complete shit. People killing each other over gasoline. Dead bodies just lying about, bloating in the heat. And the flies over everything, those fucking flies.

“But you survive. Time passes, and every day is another damned struggle — over water, over hunger, over something, _anything_ you might barter. It wears you down, but you _do_ survive.

“And _after_ surviving, you find yourself one day, down on your knees and desperate for some relief, for a little taste of the old world, just something to remind you that there was good out there once — and you happen to come across a walkman with working batteries.” The man pauses, and the longing in his voice turns to poison. “But then the tape inside is the fucking Pet Shop Boys.”

Silence, as the audience contemplates this tragedy.

“Is that all?” a voice says finally.

“What do you mean, _is that all_? What, that doesn’t sound bad enough?”

Eleanor crosses the floor of her office and straddles the lap of the man tied to a chair. He goes still as the prey his is and grits his teeth.

She smiles down at him and starts playing with the collar of his leather jacket. “You survived the plague. You’re reasonably young and living in the Bahamas – you know there are probably some people out there who got stranded in fucking Nebraska, right? And you’re complaining about the _music_?”

“Have you ever listened to the Pet Shop Boys?”

“I don’t really know what that is,” she says honestly.

At that, the man squints his blue eyes a little and darts a quick look up and down her body. “How old are you?”

“Old enough to have been running this island for four years,” she says, swinging back off his lap. She goes to stand behind his chair and puts her hands on his shoulders, which jump slightly at the tight grip. She smirks and bends down to whisper into his ear, “Now, you stole from one of my storage depots, which was a very stupid thing to do. Do you know what I usually do to people who steal from me?”

“Let them off with a sternly-worded warning?”

“I give them to Charles Vane. For practice.”

The man does not venture to ask what type of practice Charles Vane requires.

“Luckily for you,” Eleanor continues, “I happen to have encountered a difficult situation that requires a pretty face.” She draws a finger along his jawline and then punctuates it with a smart tap on the nose. “A pretty male face.”

The man twists as much as his bindings will allow and gives her a wary look. “What do you need done, exactly?”

“You’ve heard of James Flint?” When he pales, she nods in satisfaction. “Good. I need you to infiltrate his group.”

“And how am I supposed to do that?” he asks, because it's either play along or cuss her out as a sadistic psycho. Because, really – _James fucking Flint_?

She gestures at her man, who steps forward and begins to undo the ropes binding his arms and legs to the chair. Oddly, this does not make him feel any more free.

“You’re going to ask to join his crew. If he doesn’t kill you immediately just for being irritating, he’ll probably take you on. After all,” she says, as the ropes fall from his arms, “Everyone in Nassau has heard of the thief John Silver.”

He rubs at the red marks on his wrists, face carefully blank under Eleanor's watchful gaze. As soon as his legs are free, he stands and makes to book it out of the room.

“Silver,” Eleanor says, just as he is reaching the door. He stops unwillingly, listening. She continues, “I just want to make sure you understand this is a favor I am doing for Max, letting you live. Fail me, and your death won't be easy. Or private. Be a dear and let her know, would you?”

He nods, once, and leaves as quickly as he can without flat out running. Once he's back out on the street, he starts to curse.

Max is going to _kill_ him.

–

Max is his oldest friend. And she's too tactful to mention it, but she's also kind of his only friend.

They'd met through work, back before everything. Max was an activities hostess for the cruise line, which meant the poor girl had to actually interact with the guests. On the ship it wasn't too bad – ushering people from dance classes to evening concerts, you know, basic hospitality shit. But once they hit Nassau, her hometown, she was also charged with dragging the buggers all up and down Bay Street until they'd had their fill of complaining about sunburns and tired feet.

But Max was a pro; she could smile at you and you'd never guess that she was thinking of using her clipboard to rip your ear from your head.

Late nights, after the last salsa dance had grooved its way across the dance floor and all the sweating florid-faced singles had been poured into their beds, the ship staff would gather at a cramped hole-in-the-wall bar off the main tourist district.

And never mind all the bad shit – this is what John remembers most from that period of his life: dancing with Max in the hot, dark interior of that bar and sharing cigarettes as they cooled off just outside the back door.

And yeah, she was gay and he was pretty sure he wasn't capable of falling in love, but they were young and things felt simple. There were nights where he thought he could do this with her forever.

Of course, then the plague killed the world. That put an end to most of his wishes, except the parts that included Max.

–

The sun is fully up by the time John slips through the fence cordoning off the dance floor behind the bar. As always, it looks like the yard weathered a minor hurricane the previous night, with tables and chairs overturned, drink cups scattered over the grass like easter eggs, and half-dressed couples squinting blearily through the morning light as they stumble home.

Featherstone is outside, crouched down in front of the sound system.

The stereo and speakers are one of the great wonders of the city – a makeshift, battered setup that only Featherstone knows how to maintain. It's run on a patchwork of energy sources that include: one lonely windmill, two solar panels that are time-shared between five other businesses on the street, and a generator powered by fermented shit. The system breaks down approximately once a week, so Featherstone's presence this morning does not surprise John.

He pauses by the stage and looks down at the other man, who is elbow deep in an open panel. Featherstone's wearing his customary attire of an Aloha shirt open over his bare chest, so John gets a generous eyeful of curly chest hair and a bafflingly pale pot belly stomach.

Some Englishmen go a bit peculiar when they spend too much time in hot climates; Featherstone has been in Nassau since 1985. When the plague hit, his only reaction was to build a still and secure agreements with sugar cane and tobacco farmers outside the city.

“Was it really so urgent that it couldn't have waited until later in the morning?” John asks.

“They sent for me an hour ago.” Featherstone glances up at him and eyes the jacket. “Don't know how you wear that in this heat, mate. S'gonna be a real scorcher today. I can feel it.”

John could explain that true punk is being committed to aesthetic over weather, but, well, he's feeling a little too warm to bother. “Why the urgency with the stereo?”

Featherstone grunts and twists something inside the box. “Max wants it ready for this evening, taking no chances. Throwing some kind of special bash for the big wigs in the neighborhood.”

Perfect, John thinks. She'll be in a ripe mood for bad news. He really hopes Eleanor Guthrie isn't one of the attendees.

Featherstone screws up his face in concentration, working his fingers through the wiring by feel. “Think I – ”

All at once the turntables switch on and a manic, twisting beat starts blasting out of the speakers, right into John's ear. He flinches back, hand coming up protectively over his ear.

Featherstone hastily kills the power and gives him an apologetic look.

“It's too damn early for soca,” John mutters and heads on into the bar.

–

The last thing he expects to see as he mounts the top stair leading to Max's apartment is Jack Rackham and Anne Bonny slipping out her door. They're both straightening their clothes. Rackham's fly is down.

John stops dead and stares. The two of them pause on the doorstop and exchange a glance. Then Rackham flashes a smile at John.

“Strange times call for strange bedfellows.”

And John would respond to that, except Bonny immediately elbows Rackham and gives him a glare. John ends up not saying anything at all, just stands aside and watches dumbly as they shuffle past and move down the stairwell.

He stares after them and then shakes himself and dashes inside Max's apartment. She's turns immediately, likely having heard Rackham from the hallway. She's belting a bathrobe.

He points at her. “A _ha_!”

She turns away. “Please don't start.”

He throws himself in an armchair and flashes a smile that he knows looks easier than it feels. “And here I thought if you were ever going to experiment with dick, I'd be your first choice.”

She reaches over and pats him on the shoulder. “John, you know I'd prefer to keep respecting you.”

He swipes at her, but she's already danced out of reach. She turns towards her wardrobe and starts rummaging for proper clothing. Over her shoulder she asks, “And what are you doing up so early? I wasn't expecting you until the afternoon.”

The silence that follows her question is brief, but Max knows him well enough to immediately cotton on to the guilt that fills it. She rotates on her heel and fixes him with a look.

He presses his hands together. “You know how you told me never to break into that storage building on Parliament Street?”

“ _John_.”

There's no way around it; he tells her the whole story. Though this time he skips the part about the Pet Shop Boys. When he gets to the part where he's supposed to join Flint's crew, Max interrupts.

“But why?” She asks. “What's Eleanor's end game?”

“I don't know.” John leans back in his seat, as if this were a normal conversation and not a potential catastrophe. “She implied that Flint is into men. Beyond that, she didn't give detail.”

Max looks worried now. Wardrobe forgotten, she paces to the window and looks out over the street. After a moment of considering the usual morning mess below, she says, “Flint poses the greatest challenge since the Guthries established control over trade on the island. Any role she's asking you to take is a risky one.”

She doesn't need to tell him this. He remains silent, wishing for not the first time that he'd not given into his impulse the previous night. But it's always been his biggest weakness; he sees an opportunity and he takes it.

Max turns away from the window. “You'll be careful, won't you? From everything I've heard, Flint's not to be trifled with. You get whatever information she wants and get out.”

John hasn't even told her about Eleanor's ultimatum. But looking at his oldest friend in the early morning light, seeing genuine worry pinch her face, he finds he can't utter the words. He deliberately lets his fingers relax and splay over the armrests.

“It's a simple matter,” he says. “Don't worry.”

 

**Backward:**

“Last chance,” James says.

He's spent two hours buried in the boat's guts, double- and triple-checking all lashings and stores. John doesn't know much about sailing, but his intuition says the other man has been using it as a distraction.

John looks him dead in the eyes and says, “I made my decision. It hasn't changed.”

James looks up at the sail, and his brow twitches – choreographing calculations and thoughts, one hundred per second. He doesn't look satisfied at John's answer – but then, John doesn't think satisfaction's in his nature.

“There's no guarantee we'll even make it back. We have no weather forecasts, no radar.” James turns fully and faces him, and there's no hint of emotion in his eyes, everything carefully withheld. “You have to know there's a very good chance we'll die without ever reaching land.”

And the thing is – John's tired.

He's not so confident that he can say he has no doubts about this plan. Life isn't terrible here; he's actually alive, for one. He has his health and Max. It's not easy to turn his back on all that.

But sometimes life requires more than simply trudging on through the days. It requires hope. At some point that became inextricably tied up with the man before him.

“I made my decision,” he repeats. He searches the other man's eyes, willing him to accept the answer, if for no other reason than he stops wasting both their time.

James's lips thin, and he looks away – at the beach, where people could show up at any moment to disrupt their departure. John doesn't know why he's hesitating, if it's for his benefit or what.

It doesn't suit him, he decides. And it's not anything John can abide. It's not _punk_.

“Hey,” he says, lightly. When James looks back at him, he reaches up and draws him down into a kiss.

It's different than before. Despite their impending joint departure, John feels like he is actually saying goodbye – to Flint, to Nassau and their lives here. He brushes James's tongue with his own and tries to communicate this new feeling welling up in his chest, this boundless optimistic determination. _We can do this_ , he wants to say. _We can have this_.

When they finally part, James isn't looking anywhere but at him. Eyes half-lidded, line of the mouth uncharacteristically soft, he could be a completely different man than the one known to terrorize the island of New Providence.

“You get me?” John asks.

And James doesn't answer, exactly, but he ushers John onto the boat and finishes the remaining preparations.

John hoists himself up against the side and watches it all – the buffeting of the sails, the relentless waves trying, fruitlessly, to ward them off from the chaotic brutality of the open ocean. When the anchor is hoisted and the boat is completely unmoored, he absorbs the jolting and tries to maintain a confident face.

James is busy with the sail, but there is a moment where he glances over – eyes sharp and watchful, ever skeptical that he's not alone in all this. John clutches the side of the boat and tries to give him an assuring smile.

The ocean stretches before them, wide and endless and ever so blue.

John sees another question shape itself on the other man's mouth, but his nerve can't take hearing it aloud. He's not so used to love that he can be bold with it – for the first time in his life, he's acting on blind faith.

“I'm with you,” John Silver says, as their small boat bobs forward over ominous waves. “No matter what.”

And James Flint, miraculously, finally believes him.

 


End file.
